


merciful shrike

by agivise



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Study, F/F, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, because I say so, i'm love my wife, they're. in LOVE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 22:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19037206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agivise/pseuds/agivise
Summary: she is as she comes, and she comes with a saw in her hand and a gun on her hip and a strength so undeniable that her mere presence here is more monstrous than a scourge-beast could ever be.





	merciful shrike

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for the blood violence suicide etc that are typical of canon  
> if you're unfamiliar with my writing, uhh, good luck folks, im bastard  
> god i love bloodborne  
> today's song recs: bb song by blonder and fail we may sail we must by unloved

you dear salamander, you hopeless, chilly thing crawling from the kiln, spawning from the sickly red heat of flame like flies from rot. what a beast you might have made! eyes plucked from your skull by the scourge and turned to gold, humours and metals dripping from your rough-fanged maw, a touch that blue-blackened skin like an untreated wound, pale hair slick with poisons. limbs snapped, elongated, grotesque. they’d hack away at your bones and your bones would laugh and grow right back. you would’ve been _amazing,_ an awe to see, but entirely and utterly pitiful, as pitiful as the lot of them. a mindless thing. a thing worth _swatting._

you tried so hard to not be like them.

you tried right up until the moment you stopped trying.

but the blood’s temptation crooned too sweetly. you retained the peace of mind to see your own shame, but it was never enough. there was no moment of grand corruption or disease. you were simply a beast killer and a scholar who, at the end of the day, still coveted the graceless, drunken thrall of beasthood.

your blade offered you a chance to cure yourself of such woe, such undue fate, and you disgraced it. you and your _blood,_ your inherited strength and your cursed undeath, your failures and your secrets. sickening, really.

your sword to your gut. a purifying flame. it is a shame which offers solace to you as strongly as it tempted. you die, and you do not die, and you curse your damned family and their tirade and their thirst and each and every wrongdoing which keeps you in this hell.

but you are not nearly mad nor ill enough to have succumbed to the others’ fate. a beast you are not. you are only tired and alone and ensnared by your own sin in this terrible nightmare, and all you wish for now is a quick death — be it your own, or be it hers.

_hers._

she seethes with the power of a city of dead men, and you cannot imagine the hell and beauty that would be wrought if she had been overcome by the beasts’ plague or, worse yet, intoxicated by the consuming want of power. she shows every hallmark of the obsessive nature that befell you. if you cannot so violently will yourself from the surface of this nightmare, if you are so tragically unallowed to cure this world of your presence, then you may at least grace this hunter with an elegant and sincere end.

in death, she will be free.

you feel her approach in your very core. you feel her there like harmless flames coating your skin. harmless — and yet you can hardly believe the raw energy in her presence, the kind of fire that devours a world in a single night. your presumptions are dropped as immediately as hers as she reaches out to you, perhaps in search of a key or a trinket or a trophy left in your supposed wake.

your grip to her wrist is swift.

she is not pitiful. not shameful, no, _much_ worse, because she wouldn’t make a lovely beast at all. she could never turn so mindless and frail. she could never be a victim of this world, but this world could so easily turn victim to her.

she is as she comes, and she comes with a saw in her hand and a gun on her hip and a strength so undeniable that her mere presence here is more monstrous than a scourge-beast could ever be.

“a corpse should be left well alone.” her face is so very close to yours. such a pretty face, more wolfish than delicate, but pretty nonetheless. you’ll be sure to keep it in one piece if the opportunity presents itself.

she startles further backwards, freeing her hand from yours.

“oh, i know very well, how the secrets beckon so sweetly. only an honest death will cure you now. liberate you, from your wild curiosity."

you rend your blades apart with a gritty rasp and strike at her without pause. she blocks and reposts, and you dodge with ample time, lunging forwards once again.

she makes a misstep. your blade pierces cleanly through the dusty black leather of her coat, a shrike’s thorn through a young crow. you wish not to be so immediately merciless, but if this alone kills her, so be it. you hold the sword steady, and you hold _her_ steady, a momentary embrace as a silent apology. from her chest, you wrest back your sword. she falls with a thud.

you don’t remember being nearly so cruel, not without aim. how pyrrhic a victor you are.

or not — she stands once again, much more resilient than you have given her credit for, and slashes you across the gut, the saw’s teeth catching in your flesh. you stumble back and open her up to another strike: a cut to your arm so deep that you can feel the air biting at the bone. you leap back from her and, sickened by desperation, hope only that your spite may keep you alive long enough to take her down with you.

you plunge your blades straight into your own lungs, drowning them in the poison and strength of your own blood. you lash the force back out at her as she sidesteps away, grazing blood across her throat and burning the skin wherever it stains.

she’s quick to close the distance between you two almost as soon as she realizes the newfound reach of your slashes. smart girl. she may take you down after all. but not just yet. not when there’s still more of yourself to let loose.

but the blood, hers and yours and everything in between, it’s _intoxicating._ and you remember now, remember why you turned to such shame in the first place. everyone has a vice. _this_ is yours. the fight itself is nothing in comparison to the violent churn of power boiling below the meat of your veins.

hell, you can kill her. you can kill every last damned hunter who comes your way. you can kill any poor bastard who dares disturb your mimic-death.

you can kill them all.

all over again.

undying salamander, restrained no longer. your blood catches fire, splashing cinders on the pretty young hunter’s pretty brown hair. you’ll slaughter her slowly. you don’t need the grace of an uninjured, sensible state. you have inherited strengths beyond which she could ever dream of possessing.

you wreath yourself with limbs of flame and every ounce of unabated effort you can manage.

but she is a brilliant fighter, a new breed of killer you have never known the likes of, and you quickly understand that your lifetime of knights’ training will not save you now. a minute passes, and then two, and with each attack against you, you stumble closer to a liberating death, while she remains nimble and determined.

she strikes your shoulder. a sobering blow. you drop to the floor, accepting your failure.

she pounces at the opportunity, tearing the blade from your hand and pinning you with her saw.

“i see you’ve trained well. much more virtuous than i would have expected; so many who come through here are drunk on blood and reliant on arcane shadows.” you struggle against the knee pressed into your ribs. “you must be used to fighting fast.”

“what gave it away?”

“you’re quite adroit.”

“surely you jest. a cleaver like this was too heavy to match your speed — much better suited for killing beasts, the lumbering things. you quite nearly got the better of me.”

“then i shall pray you do not run across the twin blades i discarded in the hamlet beyond. i cannot imagine their lethality in your skilled hands.”

the cleaver’s teeth press into the skin of your throat. you can smell them, the fresh, shallow cuts.

“too kind,” she smiles.

“so much like me,” you manage despite the ache in your lungs. “just like me.”

“what happened to you?”

“i lived.”

“and what have you done, to make that such a sin?”

“a ferity which i cannot undo.”

she pulls back the sawed blade and rests a hand over yours. “so vague, lady maria. what lies beyond this clocktower which you so desperately defend?”

“i don’t defend the hamlet. there’s nothing left of it to defend. _that_ is my sin. i tore the eyes from their skulls just to study them and deserved every ounce of curse and hell i got for it. leave the child be,” you plea, ceasing your struggle. “i have done enough damage to this place. i needn’t have another like me roaming around. if you have any decency left, kill me swiftly and turn back to the dream while you still can.”

“come with me.”

she pulls back from you, and you sit upright, though you do not reach for your blade.

“i cannot leave,” you say.

“i suppose you mean this nightmare, as i rather strongly suspect you do not mean this room. trapped as you may be, you might still travel in my presence.”

you laugh, a light sound, and lay yourself back onto the floor. “i _will_ not leave this room. how’s that for clarity?”

“then i shall sit with you until you come to your senses.”

“you’ll sit here and watch me bleed to death? sensible, indeed.”

“bleed to _un_ death, no? i’m familiar with the process. and i haven’t dealt a killing blow just yet.” she hands you back your blade. you do not take it.

“had we met in a more agreeable state of affairs, i fear i’d have liked you quite a lot.”

“had we met in a more agreeable state of affairs, i would not have liked you _nearly_ this much.”

“i see we’re at an impasse.”

“come _with._ ”

“will it stop you from sitting around bothering me?”

“oh, certainly.”

“you’re lying.”

“and you’re bleeding on the floor, wallowing in gravitas and pity. get up. we have a curse to break.”

you grit your teeth. “may i rest?”

she sits down on the floor and prods at the wound on your arm, assessing the damage. “only if i may rest with you.”

“you’re beautiful, you know.” the words are out of your mouth before you even think them.

she lies beside you, her gloved hand wiping the blood from your throat. “beautiful, skilled, and undying? what _can’t_ i do?”

“leave me be, apparently.”

she laughs, breath warm on your ear. “correct again.”

and she stays.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos mean the world


End file.
